As this is the start of a new Decade and also my 60
th
Sub to Literotica I thought it should be something out of the ordinary. 'Eat me, Drink me' is a short story that I wrote a very long time ago. It has languished in a folder for many moons whispering to me that I ought to type it up and edit it properly. And so I have.
It is set during the Manchester arc, prior to Underwear but completely unconnected to that storyline.
For new readers, this is a vampire story so don't read it if bloodsuckers ain't your bag! For those readers used to the usual Rayne adventures, I will also add the warning that this tale contains shameless heterosexual naughtiness, between a man and young lady, and I make no apologies for that.
Enjoy. •
*
Alice was initially drawn to the stranger on the train home by the pale marks on his slender hands and forearms. He had delicate hands, with long white fingers, like a pianist or a painter, and angular wrists that hinted seductively at infinite flexibility. Like a ghostly game of noughts and crosses the scars decorated his forearms and the backs of his hands; an indelible echo of past hurts.
She found herself subconsciously rolling back her purposely long, loose sleeves; wanting him to see the answering badge of lonely courage she wore on her own skin; needing to share that secret pain with him. A complete stranger.
Her parents knew nothing about the razor blade she kept hidden in her jewellery box, in the secret little compartment beneath the ring drawer. The family liked to tease her for her need to wear a long-sleeved shirt, even in the hottest weather. They did not understand, of course. The hurt she bore was not for them to know. Her younger brother would only poke fun. Mum would look at her with that expression of fond tolerance mixed with confusion and despair for all the things Alice did that her own generation could never comprehend. Dad would treat her like she was still a little girl and not just turned eighteen, wanting to mollycoddle the hurt away with tickles and sweets the way he did when she was seven and scraped her knee on the steps at Southport Lido.
The stranger on the train was so beautiful that she could not stop herself stealing glances at him. He was reading a magazine, absorbed in a brilliant Technicolor fantasy on the pages draped across his bony knees whilst the drab, grey, post-industrial reality whistled past the windows unheeded. Alice was standing by the luggage bay near the carriage doors, headphones plugged into her ears, wrapped up in the comforting sounds of her favourite bands. The ancient three-car set lurched wildly across points and rattled through a square-edged forest of suburban housing estates, punctuated by the occasional flash of dirty gold as a yet undeveloped field emerged from the sea of brick and slate; slab and tarmac. She always preferred to stand, even when there were seats free, as there were today. The beautiful man, immersed in his magazine, sat just inside the carriage, occupying four facing seats, though he sat in only one of them. His slim legs were stretched out, booted feet resting on the worn, garishly patterned upholstery of the place diagonally opposite his own.
The deliberately sprawling posture and positioning of his boots said "Go Away! There are other places to sit. Go use them and don't bother me!" He did not move them, even when the train stopped at a busy station and about fifty people seemed to board at once through the sliding doors that faced her own aloof perch.
The new travellers found their own spaces, melting into other seats, sinking into the depths of the train, shedding their polypropylene outer skins and rustling and crunching in their own small spaces. They were invisible to her, as the train eased out of the world of stone and iron girders, brick and concrete, reaching again for the wider, open spaces.
The stranger put down his magazine on the empty seat beside him and stretched like a tiger sunning itself. He rested one angular elbow against the window ledge and his long fingers played with the inky fronds of his blue-black hair. Straight, perfect falls of ebony framed his features, like the hair of a wind-blown Chinese warrior in an ancient woodcut she had seen once at the Museum. The stranger was most definitely not an Asian though. His milky skin was pale as the moon and his large, almond-shaped eyes were the colour of new leaves in spring; an impossible green that made her wonder if he was wearing coloured lenses. She could cast discreet glances at his face now that he was staring out of the window. It was a pretty, almost girlish, heart-shaped face. In fact she only knew he was a man and not a woman by his casual pose, which drew the eye to the swell of his long, masculine sex in the crotch of his tight, black jeans. That, and the shadow of a nascent beard beneath the pale skin over his pointed chin and under his tip-tilted, impish nose.
Though he was very still she sensed restlessness in him like an inner storm or a surging, rain-blasted sea. His feet tapped against the seat cover and his long fingers drummed incessantly on the window frame as if he heard a secret music, something no one else could tune in to. His lips parted, so pale and full, glistening moistly in the watery sunlight that glimmered briefly through the dirty windows. She saw the way that the tip of his small, pink tongue played across his lips then retreated into his mouth like a tiny fish darting for cover. She ached to dart after it, pressing her mouth to his, her own tongue seeking sanctuary between his lips and tangling with his.
The intensity of that emotion startled Alice. She was not used to such impulsive desires. The boys at her school were, in the main, dreary creatures hardly worthy of her attention at all. Those who dared to try and dazzle were so far removed from Alice's own small, dark world of dreams that she would not even meet their insolent stares, let alone speak to them. She grew wet for them each night in her narrow bed though.
Now, to her astonishment and mortification, she was moist between her legs again, watching the stranger smile more vividly; perhaps at some witticism on the page before him; perhaps at some fanciful thought; she could not say. His canines were long and curved like a wild beast's and the flash of silver as he ran his tongue against his small, white, perfect incisors told her that it was pierced with a single, tiny stud. Alice felt that hunger again. She longed to feel his tongue in her mouth, to hear the little silver ball click against her teeth as they kissed and to sink beneath him, letting his warm, lean body crush her firm, high breasts against her ribs. She wanted to know the urgent press of his hardness against her soft, pelvic mound.
Idly now she let her mind wander in dreams, where she was as bold as some of the prettier girls at school. Girls like Becca and Linsey, who would shamelessly go with older boys in the park on Friday and Saturday nights; lying down in the long grass with them and giving of themselves as she had never dared to in her waking hours. Alice knew that her eyes were not blue enough; her thick blonde hair too unruly; her chest too flat and her hips too wide to attract boys like the ones in her sticky-fingered nightly fantasies.
Even the young man sitting by the window in front of her was prettier than she was, she thought irritably. All the same, Alice let her gaze admire his long, elegant hands, taking in the swirls of silver on his index finger and the smallest digit of the left. The third was bereft of ornament though, a small void in his perfection. Could she dare to believe that he was yet unclaimed; so beautiful and so damaged that no woman could have him?
Now her eyes roamed over his scars again, the fine criss-crossing of white lines across the backs of his slim, fair-skinned arms and the puckered, pinkish circles on his hands that were without doubt the spawn of a lighted cigarette. She touched the small, round marks on her own wrists, still raw, mere weeks old some of them - the originals were dry now, hard little knots against her skin. Her fingers played the strings of flesh left by the razor's kiss, not just on her arms and hands, but on the softer meat of her round, white thighs too.
Alice leaned back, letting the motion of the train rock her like a tempestuous lover. The slight, erotic prickle where she had recently shaved was rubbing up now against the wetness of her black, cotton thong as she swayed with the lurch and roll of the carriage. Last night, lying in the bath, she had sacrificed those virginal blonde curls to the edge of her precious razor before slicing the sharp blade into the creamy softness of her thigh. Briefly she had been a Goddess, lying in the foaming water, watching mesmerised as her blood danced lazy swirls on the surface, staining her shorn tresses scarlet. She itched to cut the plump folds of her vulva too, just to know the pure burn of steel between her legs, but her courage failed her there. Bad enough that she was already the school freak, in her long dark skirts and her dripping sleeves, her eyes and lips painted Pierrot-black. God forbid that any normal boy should deign to pull down her knickers only to laugh in disbelief at her disfigurement.
But
One
Day
… she promised herself.
And in any case, if no boy would have her, it did not matter if she wore a single scar between her legs or ten, or a thousand!
She pushed away her dreams and fears to find those preternaturally green eyes fixed on her, wide and unblinking in their quiet contemplation. The look in that silent stare told Alice at once that he was aware of her scrutiny. To her surprise his soft lips twitched in a small, knowing smile.
And Alice smiled back before she could even censor the reaction. Her mind was still whirling, lost in the dream. For it must be a part of her dream. Boys did not smile at her, and certainly not like
that
. As if they wanted to lick her up like a spill of cream.
He sat straighter then, scooping up the magazine and tossing it onto the facing seat, indicating the empty place next to him with an abrupt motion of his hand. His fingers dripped elegantly, like willow fronds, from his flexible wrists. Alice shuddered at the idea of them delicately exploring her bare skin. She moved forward on leaden legs into the walk-space between seats.
"I prefer standing, really."
He pulled a disappointed face at that.
"But we can't talk if you stand out there," he pointed out. His voice was low and husky; a smoky tenor. Alice had somehow expected him to be a local man but he was not. His accent spoke to her of the distant South, of London and the grey, winding Thames. She longed to run away to London and her heart skipped a little.
